


fire and smoke (keep watching over Durin's sons)

by asthiathien



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Body Horror, Dragon Sickness, Dragon!Thorin, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, M/M, Prayers to Broken Stone Spin-off, Thorin POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3636498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asthiathien/pseuds/asthiathien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin Oakenshield has broken the curse of Durin's Line and freed himself from the touch of the dragon, the shadows of his transformation fading the longer he stands in the sunlit brilliance of day.<br/>Or so they all think.</p><p>In which Thorin has not escaped from the dragon sickness to the extent that everyone, including himself, thinks he has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avelera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Prayers to Broken Stone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205443) by [Avelera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera). 



> This is, not only a "what-if" fic exploring more of dragon!Thorin and the many and varied possibilities that offers, but also a thank you for Avelera for writing the beautiful and wonderful _Prayers to Broken Stone_. I recommend reading that fic, partially because you need to have read it to understand this but also because it's a truly amazing story in general.  
>  ~~is it good etiquette to thank people with absurd amounts of angst because I'm not sure it is~~

_Already madness, with its wing,_  
_Covers a half of my heart, restless,_  
_Gives me the flaming wine to drink_  
_And draws into the vale of blackness._

_In the dense mist, the Northern Star – in brightness,_  
_And a blue shine of the beloved eyes_  
_Is covered by the last fear-darkness._  
  
_– Anna Akhmatova_

* * *

Thorin doesn’t remember much of those first days out of the dragon sickness. His body is awake and functional, except for those few lingering traces of pain in his bones from the transformation shattering his bones and twisting his flesh into a cruel mockery of what he used to be, but his mind exists in a state of near catatonia.

_“He’s been through a terrible shock,” he hears Gandalf say at some point, when they think he isn’t listening. “His mind needs time to heal from the stress he’s been subjected to, and thus he’s entered a state of complete mental shutdown. It will fade with time, I can promise you that. A few days at the absolute most.”_

(Thorin doesn’t tell them that even if the shock fades, he doesn’t think he’ll ever truly heal.)

The days after the transformation are spent sitting at Bilbo’s bedside, watching his dearest Hobbit slowly breathing, his face horribly pale despite the faint flush of fever. He sits at his side and the memories come back slowly, in disordered bits and pieces, rarely remembered all at once until one morning when he hears Óin make an innocuous comment of “the lad’s wound is healing well” and Thorin is almost paralyzed by the sudden rush of horror that floods him as he remembers. As he remembers _everything_.

Balin puts his hand on his shoulder, asking if he’s alright, and Thorin nods and tells him he’s fine and says that he wants to take up the burdens of ruling once more and if Balin could prepare everything he needs, that would be wonderful, thank you kindly, my good friend, I’ll just be a moment.

And then Thorin leaves, closing the door to his chambers behind him before he sinks down to his knees, digging his fingers in his hair until the pain brings tears to his eyes, except he doesn’t truly feel it because the agony of the dragon transformation is far worse than any pain he could bring upon himself.

So he closes his eyes and breathes deeply until he’s confident he’s not going to be ill from the guilt and self-loathing from his actions during the dragon-sickness, and until he thinks he can bear to act as king without sliding into memories of being bound to the throne, of locking down the mountain and abandoning his people to lie caught in the thrall of the gold-lust.

(And he’s well aware that his actions under the sickness, the actions undertaken by the whispering being stealing his will and control, were not his to control in the slightest, but it doesn’t matter because he _should have done something_ , not just passively stood by and _let it._ )

And then he gets to his feet and very calmly opens the door and follows Balin to whatever duties the other thinks are the best for him to be undertaking at the moment, and though he very easily finds it within himself to protest to decisions when it concerns the well-being of his people, it’s nowhere near as easy to do the same where _he_ is concerned.

Three days pass, of Thorin listening to Balin’s gentle urgings to eat and sleep, except Thorin still has difficulty letting himself fall into slumber from the fear of the dragon-sickness somehow returning in his sleep, to steal all conscious thought from him and twist his will until he is trapped in twilight, able to watch but unable to stop as the dragon destroys everything he cares for.

And when the memories of a dragon’s sibilant whisperings echo too loudly in his mind, when he has to look twice at any reflective surface to banish the glowing eyes and obsidian scales, he slips away from hi chambers and goes to walk on the upper battlements, letting the wind blow through his hair as he watches the unforgiving cold starlight above and tries not to think about flying, tries not to wonder about how the wind would whisper beneath his wings, soft and gentle but holding him aloft with all the stability of stone, to think how the world would look spread out beneath him, emeralds and golds in summer, diamonds and ebony in winter, rubies and amber and eventually solid iron and granite as the leaves fell away in autumn, and a sprinkling of thousands of tiny gemstones in shades too numerous to name during the great flowerings of spring. Tries not to think about the rebuilt Erebor beneath him, stable and strong and overflowing with life as he stands at her peak, the power to preserve and protect blazing in the fire coiling beside his heart.

Tries, and fails, because the offer the dragon made to him, the Dwarven Empire with his people forever safe and protected by the mighty Dragon-King Beneath The Mountain, was easy enough to deny with the threat of draconic possession waiting in his mind with every moment and every breath he takes. But in the shielding darkness, far removed from the dangers, he can look at the dragon’s offer and find it tempting, the promise of peace and hope and a future that would not be constant and eternal fighting for every single scrap.

He is too suspicious, too wary, to ever consider it a possibility, but the temptation of it lingers, because something in Thorin’s heart desperately longs for that reassurance, for the knowledge of there being something in his life that he can take for granted, that he can feel the power in his very bones and _know_ there will be nothing that can threaten his people, nothing that can steal their very homes away from them. To feel that strength and know beyond doubt that he _can_ shield them, to know that he will be able to protect them no matter what happens.

And, perhaps most importantly, to not have to face the crippling fear of failure, to know beyond doubt that he will not fail, to be certain of victory, and to feel strong as he never has in his life.

He longs for that rush of strength and protective might, for that sense of invincibility that even the dragon sickness could not truly provide. And even knowing that no true dragon would protect his kin and loved ones, his _people_ , is not enough to discourage him. Somehow, he keeps thinking that he could have managed it, could have somehow curbed the draconic gold-lust while sacrificing none of the power, that he could have wrapped every dwarf on Middle-earth in a shield of dragonscale and white-hot flame if he’d only been strong enough to do it. Somehow.

And somehow these nightly moments of pacing upon the mountainside only serve to strengthen the reminders of blazing dragonfire curled in his chest, awaiting the moment when it would be set free, and that brief but terrible _longing_ that had almost stayed his hand at the moment he cast away the power that he keeps thinking could have been enough to save his people, if only he’d had the strength to stretch out his hand and take it.

(When Gandalf says that he fears Thorin might have been tempted by the promise of power that the dragon sickness offers, he is indignant but at the same time recognizes the terrible yearning that the dragon sickness awoke in him, that he still wants that power and he understands that Gandalf would fear it might control him in that moment of weakness.)

And when it feels as if longing for something he never was might consume him, he slips back to his chambers and finally manages to find sleep, though his dreams are intermingled with imagined possibilities of flight beneath the stars and over sunlight landscapes with Bilbo’s exclamations of delight in his ears, of soaring down from the peak of the mountain and descending upon approaching orc armies like a thunderstorm of wrath and protective fury.

(And perhaps that should have informed him, or the fact that he can suddenly move so quietly that none of the dwarrow guarding the rooms or wandering the halls seem to hear him, but he doesn’t let himself listen.)

In the daylight hours, he finds his eyes continually drawn to the signs of restoration, suddenly finds within himself an even keener eye for craftsmanship, no matter how small, though very little (and nothing at all of gold) is too precious for him to easily take his eyes off of. Treasure has suddenly come to mean little, the emotions of the piece far more important to him.

And if Thorin becomes suddenly obsessed with defense, it’s only to be expected by someone who witnessed firsthand the attack of Smaug. If he suddenly has a fierce and blazing hatred of gold and anything shaded glossy black or glowing blue, then each king is allowed to have his quirks, especially the famed and legendary Thorin Oakenshield, the Reclaimer, and at least he isn’t suffering from gold-lust.

There are no end of excuses to shield him and deny any ideas that he’s anything other than stable and confident, sure in his rule (which, to be fair, ruling is the one thing about which he’s never had problems with confidence or surety, though the constant fear of failure continually lurked at the back of his mind) and utterly devoted to his people (which is also true). There are even excuses to defend his nervous tic of running one hand up and down his other arm, occasionally testing his nails to ensure they aren’t claws, though they are rather flimsy excuses.

But even as Gandalf reassures him that he has purged the sickness from his soul and Bilbo promises that there isn’t anything to fear, some part of him still knows, even if there is no proof. He can no longer see in the dark as if it were midday, cannot feel every miniscule piece of the treasure hoard, no longer bears claws and dragonscales.

Even so, Thorin knows. And when the proof begins to show itself, after Gandalf has already disappeared into the Wild and Bilbo is comfortably making himself at home, already immersed in books of dwarven law, because if he’s going to be a Royal Consort then he’s going to _act_ like one, even if he has to read through the dullest tomes on the face of Middle-earth to do it, Thorin cannot truly be surprised.

* * *

It starts, as all draconic things do, slowly and subtly. Thorin finds, in the forge, if he makes a small mistake and happens to brush against the hot metal, or get a little too close to those blazing furnaces, then his hands will be somehow, miraculously, unburned, and even when others are sweaty and exhausted from the heat Thorin still feels as if he happens to be sitting a little too close to the campfire. And even though Erebor restored provides few opportunities for building fires, he cannot help but notice that the flames seem to burn just a little brighter in his presence, even if he proceeds to dismiss it later as the imaginings of a tired mind.

And on those few days when official business is canceled so that every able-bodied dwarf can assist in some massive restoration project, he is just a little stronger than he remembers being, finds it just a little easier to move the heavy stone than the others around him. And though he pretends that it has something to do with his years of blacksmith work, the others tend to be no less hardworking in their exile than he, and Thorin cannot help but wonder why even as he violently ignores all thoughts of dragon sickness.

And when he discusses matters with his council, it seems just a little easier to convince the others of his opinions, which he blames on Bilbo’s influence even though the other has pointed out repeatedly that his area of expertise is in riddles and not negotiations. And while his negotiations with Thranduil and Bard are thankfully few and far between, even they seem more easily swayed by his arguments, as stubborn as ever in usual diplomatic relations but suddenly just that bit more willing to come through for him when he truly is in need of it.

But all of this is easy to ignore, easy to pretend is merely the imaginings of his own mind and nothing more. Suspicious, unnerving when assembled and looked at together, but still so very easy to ignore.

Until it is so very suddenly _not_.

* * *

Thorin swears viciously as the red-hot iron slips from the tongs he was using to pull it from the forge-fire so it can be worked on – it’s been a long week and even Bilbo’s reassuring warmth at his side has not been enough to get his overworked mind settled enough to sleep.

So he is here, at the forges, in the middle of the night, working on random things to get himself to sleep properly, and sleep deprivation is the only explanation he can give as to why he decides to try and catch the sword (a gift for Dáin’s son, recently come of age, he thinks) with his bare hand.

His hand closes instinctively around the sword and then he’s already moving to place it back on the anvil, ready for shaping, when he realizes he’s holding a _red-hot sword_ with his _bare hand_ , and _yes_ , Thorin, that tends to be a bit of a _bad idea_.

Thorin drops the sword with a shout almost on expectation, and it’s only as he’s moving towards the small bucket of water meant for cooling the blades that he realizes that it didn’t hurt.

Thorin pauses halfway across the forge, turning over his hand to stare at his unblemished palm, suddenly realizing he felt no pain, nothing more than a faint sense of lingering warmth, and then he glances up and sees his reflection in a glass mirror hanging on the far wall for no particular reason.

And starts back in horror, because his eyes are shining with their own light once again, the witchlight glow dimmer than he recalls but still bathing his face in otherworldly light, and there are flickers of obsidian scales upon his face and he _knows_ they’re there because shadows do not shine in the firelight.

He doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he slams his hands into the glass, shattering the reflection into a thousand tiny fragments that all glitter in the faint glow, and Thorin can take heart in knowing that his pupils are not yet slit like a dragon’s, but it fades the instant he realizes there is no blood upon the shards of broken glass and no damage to his hands and he _swears_ for one instant he can feel the hard ridges of scales where the callused skin of his palm should be before they fade away like shadows banished by the sudden light of a candle flame.

Thorin takes in several shuddering breaths, kneeling on the stone that feels suddenly icy against his skin and then he swears he feels the sudden alchemical heat of flame curling beside his heart and he cries out involuntarily, something in his mind screaming out in horrified fear because he remembers every single _second_ of the dragon sickness, even those portions the dragon blocked from him, and the thought of that _monster_ beneath his skin –

Thorin realizes he’s coiled tightly into a ball, kneeling on the floor of the forge, his hands digging into his hair and he feels tremors running through his whole body, susurrations of fear and lingering terror.

At the quiet voice he nearly screams before he realizes that it does not carry the sibilant hiss of the dragon’s words, and he only has enough time for the relief to sink in before a hand falls on his shoulder and he nearly cries out in terror.

But the hand is solid and dwarven, scarred with the unmistakable marks of being burned at the forge, and for an instant Thorin wonders how he looks, a lone dwarf in a loose cotton tunic and pants kneeling in the midst of shattered glass, before the hand reaches out and gently turns his face so their gazes meet and Thorin can only desperately hope that the other doesn’t see his glowing eyes.

But the other shows no sign of fear or shock, merely concern, and if his eyes widen somewhat at coming face to face with the legendary Thorin Oakenshield, then Thorin is willing to overlook it.

“Your Majesty,” he says, dropping to one knee before Thorin though careful to avoid the broken glass. But then his eyes flick upwards and Thorin is taken aback at the depth of _concern_ there. “Are you all right?”

And then his surprise is buried beneath the panicky flood of _he knows, he’s seen, they know I could not banish it, that I could not even accomplish that_

“Can I help?”

Thorin blinks, startled out of his fright, and then the words begin to sink in and he just stares at the smith kneeling before him, the smith whose name he does not even _know_.

The other seems to be taking his silence as rejection, for he bows his head and murmurs, “I apologize, sire, forgive me – ”

“I – No, it’s fine,” Thorin says before he can stop himself or truly think about what he is saying, only that the words give him something else to focus on beside the memories of scale and fire and a beast within his mind stealing all consciousness and free will from him.

The smith looks up, and then he says softly, “It’s the dragon sickness, isn’t it?”

Thorin tries and fails to stop the flinch, his breathing catching in his throat, and then the fear starts to sink in, the realization that they know, they’ve seen and nothing he can do can stop that now. They have seen his failure, and they have realized that he is still trapped, a draconic and twisted mockery of Mahal’s children, and there will be no forgiveness, not this time.

And truly, does he deserve any less?

A hand falls on his shoulder and he flinches back, and to his surprise the other looks almost as stricken as he is, before the smith sighs and buries his face in his hands.

Thorin blinks in confusion, closing his eyes and reopening them as if that will somehow wake him up because he honestly does not understand what in _Durin’s name_ is happening.

“I’m sorry.”

Thorin stares blankly, his mind within moments of shutting down from sleep deprivation and flashbacks and lingering panic, and this confusion is more than he can handle. “I – what?” he manages, stumbling over the beginnings to sentences he cannot provide the endings for before finally going silent.

“I’m sorry,” the smith repeats, and then he lowers his hands to his sides and speaks gently to Thorin, never breaking eye contact, “I should have realized that the sickness must have been traumatic for you and not reminded you of it. I apologize for that, however my offer to help still stands.” And then he gives Thorin such a hopeful look that he is once again taken aback.

Thorin swallows back the taste of bile and sulfur at the back of his throat and shakes his head, murmuring in a voice almost too faint to be heard, “I’m fine.” He closes his eyes and swallows again, feeling suddenly ill for no discernible reason. “Thank you for your consideration, but I am fine. Truly,” he adds when the other levels him with a skeptical look.

The smith looks as if he wishes to say something more, but Thorin gets to his feet and moves towards the door, feeling his hands still trembling with nerves and the need to find a mirror to see the extent of any draconic transformation is almost overpowering, but still he stops in the doorway and glances back at the mess he left behind.

“Should I – ” he starts, but the smith waves him off.

“It’s perfectly fine, I can take care of it,” and then he levels Thorin with a critical look. “You look like a walking corpse. Get some sleep, Thorin-King.”

Thorin is impressed he manages to hold back his flinch at the word _King_ but the reminder of the way his glowing blue eyes tended to transform his features into those of the dead, before the scales overtook his body entirely, only feeds the desperate need to verify that the transformation is not beginning again and he nearly runs from the forges to find some room with a mirror.

Eventually he finds himself within a room filled with a pool of water nearly covering the entirety of the floor, trickling from a crack in the wall before disappearing somewhere beneath the water, the entire room lit in shades of green-blue from the light of the bioluminescent mosses and algae that flowered beneath the dragon’s sight during those long years of exile, and something inside him applauds himself for choosing something reflective that won’t shatter into a thousand pieces should he try to destroy the image.

At the first sight of the water, the burning desperation to see himself to ensure the dragon sickness does not remain disappears entirely, a sudden fear looming in his heart that what he will see will be the dragon come to life once more, wings and claws suddenly appearing as fire blazes at his throat.

Thorin closes his eyes and slowly walks towards the water, only halting when he hears the splash of his boot landing in the small pool. Still, he does not open his eyes, standing with shaking hands as he remembers the fear and terror of awakening and finding his beloved injured by his hand, and worse, the memory of _trying to kill him_

Thorin’s eyes fly wide with a gasp as they lock onto his reflection in the water, desperately searching the image for any trace of the dragon, but there is no trace of scales creeping up his throat and face, no sign of the tipped black claws on his fingers.

Thorin is beginning to turn away when he catches the glimpse of blue light in the reflection.

He is instantly spinning back around, his eyes snapping the flicker of light, and he can almost sense the moment when the world falls out from beneath his feet, because his

eyes

are

_glowing –_

Thorin staggers back, the breath driven from his body as if he has been stabbed through the chest, and he feels horribly ill at the thought of the draconic transformation _returning_ , at the thought that even that escape might have been nothing but a temporary reprieve, nothing more than a desperate hope his mind latched onto with all its might because if it wasn’t true he might have just gone insane from the weight of it.

His fists are clenched at his sides and his eyes squeezed shut, but the image of his shining eyes wavering on the water is engraved into his mind, and he feels on the verge of fleeing before something else strikes him.

There are no whispers of the dragon in his mind, no murmurs of quiet wrath and silken desolation, and still the only gold he longs for are the bright curls of Bilbo’s hair and there is no touch of fevered obsession within his mind.

(The need to protect lingers, but that has been the heart and soul of his existence since he realized after Azanulbizar that none remained to rule in his stead, and he doubts it has any connection now to his sickness.)

That realization should not strike so hard and yet it does, something loosening in his chest and allowing him to breathe easily once more as relief floods him as swiftly as did the terror, for he knows he will take any opportunity to believe the sickness does not plague him once more.

Thorin slowly opens his eyes, beholding the witchlight glow of his eyes once more, accusing in the rippling waters, and he has to force himself not to lunge forward and strike at the reflection the moment he sees in once more.

And in that moment, the glow _flickers_.

Thorin’s heart clenches, the fear of having merely mistaken it rising again in his heart, but he knows it is truth, as surely as he knows his love for Bilbo. And though the light is as bright now as it ever was, there is something within him that knows it sputtered and almost went out entirely in the moment he felt like destroying it.

Scarcely daring to breathe, he concentrates once more on the moment within the treasury, of destroying the draconic shell around himself and returning to himself, to being merely Thorin, and then the light flickers again before it winks out entirely, leaving the room suddenly far darker than it had been, but still Thorin nearly collapses with relief.

He closes his eyes, slowly sinking to his knees and uncaring that he is kneeling the shallows of the water, still feeling that surge of utter relief but despite it all he can still sense the flickering flames in his chest, merely waiting for a moment in which to surge back into life, and when he opens his eyes once more they are wavering between deep Durin blue and the blazing light of the dragon.

Thorin draws in a breath, his eyes locked to the water, and as his mind moves towards the taste of sulfur in his mouth and the feeling of impenetrable dragonscale on his arms the glow brightens and he sees a flickering of black scales on his hand and along the left side of his face, and his hand clenches around the fabric of his tunic, trying to modulate his breathing in a vain attempt not to panic.

But, as if sensing his fear, the scales swiftly disappear as if they never existed, the glow in his eyes dimming though not vanishing completely.

Thorin gets to his feet shakily, eyes focused on the water even as he stumbles blindly back towards the door, and suddenly the light brightens and he can see, for just the briefest moment, obsidian scales reflecting the glow, claws of silver, one side elegant and elongated like Orcrist and the scales on the left patterned in an imitation of oak bark, solidly armoured, a crown of gold encircling his brow and wings spread out behind him, forming a veil of shadow around him.

And then the light winks out and plunges him into near-darkness lit only by the inconstant glow of algae, and Thorin doesn’t try to hide the fact that he bolts from the room as if Durin’s Bane itself is chasing him, nor the choking noises of terror he makes as he flees.


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin twists the ceremonial ring around his finger repetitively, his eyes locked on the mirror before him, on the blue witchlight glow that remains in his eyes no matter how hard he tries to dim its light. The gold feels cold against his skin, the chill seeping into his bones and making him shiver even though he knows that the warmth of dragonfire burns inside his heart.

Balin opens the door, and in the second between Thorin seeing the door creak open and the advisor stepping into the room, the glow in his eyes disappears to leave them the same crystalline blue they have always been since three months ago, the ever-present flame in his chest dimming down to glowing embers that would take only a single moment to relight.

Balin sighs behind him, but Thorin doesn’t take his eyes off his reflection, desperately searching for any trace of scales as his fingers pause briefly in spinning the ring in order to test for claws against the flesh of his skin.

A hand lands on his shoulder as Balin steps up behind him and looks into the mirror with him, clearly searching for some sign of acknowledgement in Thorin’s eyes.

When none is forthcoming, he says quietly, “Thorin, we’ve put this off as long as we possibly can. To keep it back would raise serious doubts amongst the members of the nobility about your ability and right to rule.”

“I know,” Thorin says calmly, his tone not revealing a single trace of his inner turmoil.

Balin sighs once again, and he squeezes Thorin’s shoulder in a useless gesture of reassurance.

“I wish I knew how to help, laddie,” he says after a long pause, so quiet Thorin barely catches it. Balin bows his head, running his other hand through his hair. “You’re still so frightened over the dragon sickness, and I just wish you could tell us what’s wrong.”

Thorin smiles sadly, and he looks towards his advisor and friend with something not quite sorrow and not quite pity but something caught in between. For a moment, the thought of simply telling him about what’s been happening since the rebuilding effort began tempts him, but then the fear of their reprisal, of their rejection, silences him. They stood by his side in this matter once before, this is so, and Thorin trusts his Company with his life, but standing by your dragon-transformed friend while still being caught in shock and confusion and immediately after said individual has endured an agonizing transformation is far removed from defending that person when you learn he has been keeping secrets from you about the transformation and after the shock has had time to wear off. And Thorin cannot bear to break those bonds of trust. He can’t bring himself to hurt them like that, to give such a cruel reward for their long loyalty.

Thorin opens his mouth, ready to provide some pithy reassurance, when he catches the gleam of dragon-light in his eyes and freezes. Balin looks up, sensing the sudden tension, and his eyes flick to where Thorin is looking, at his own eyes in the mirror, glowing with fell blue light.

But, of course, by the time Balin looks up the glow has already disappeared.

Balin sighs softly, running another hand through his hair before he takes Thorin’s hands in his, stilling their restless movement. “Laddie…” he starts, and then he bows his head with a sigh. “They’re not real,” he murmurs after a time. “It’s not real, Thorin.”

_Yes, it is_ , Thorin wants to say, but of course Balin wasn’t there in the moment Thorin’s hands transformed into draconic claws, tipped with silver but no less malevolent for it. So he settles for looking away from Balin’s searching gaze, refusing to acknowledge him.

After a long pause, Balin seems to give it up and simply says, “You have five more minutes,” before squeezing Thorin’s shoulder once more and stepping out.

Thorin looks up into the mirror, already spinning the ring again. The glow has remained dimmed after Balin leaves, though he can see the glimmer of obsidian scales, the shadowy form of wings rising behind him.

Thorin shakes his head hard, managing to banish the illusions of wings from his vision but the eyes remain. The first few days, he was able to dim the light himself, but now they remain unless he concentrates on memories of Bilbo or the moment of casting off the full transformation.

* * *

As Thorin walks up to the throne, the bright glow of the Arkenstone captures his gaze, though only briefly before his eyes are drawn to Bilbo, already standing by the throne in his own ceremonial clothing (Hobbit wedding attire, which Thorin managed to sweet-talk the council into through insistence upon it being traditional and, as he now suspects, a judicious amount of unconscious dragon-spell) with a finely crafted crown of emeralds and gold and amber resting amongst his curls. As per tradition, the Consort’s coronation had occurred the morning before.

Thorin walks up the pathway garbed in full ceremonial attire, surrounded by the glory of Erebor renewed, with Dwalin and Dáin by his side in full armour and Balin awaiting him with the crown, the people cheering wildly for him, and wishes he could be anywhere but here.

It has something to do with his consistent fear of having the remnants of the dragon sickness exposed in front of others, but more than that it is simply the knowledge that he doesn’t deserve it. He deserves absolutely none of it. He almost released another _dragon_ into their halls, for Mahal’s sake (and he still might), and they believe he deserves praise and honor.

Thorin mounts the steps leading to the dais, and there he encounters the Company, spread out on either side of the throne with a grinning Fíli and Kíli at the fore, and each one of them nods happily to him as he ascends and kneels before Balin.

The cheering crowds go silent, and from his position he knows his words will echo throughout the entire hall, and he’s fairly certain every other king before this was trying to remember their overly-complicated ritual oaths but Thorin is _far_ more worried about his voice slipping into the draconic snarl at exactly the wrong moment.

Balin utters the beginning questions for each oath and Thorin echoes them, calm and solemn and his voice betraying nothing of his inner turmoil.

Still, as he feels the crown being lowered onto his brow he sees his right hand flicker into the scaled copy of itself he bore during the height of the sickness and he spots the glow of his eyes in the obsidian scales.

And then the crown is settled and Thorin is rising, ascending the last few steps, his eyes skimming over the place on the arms of the throne where his claws dug in, and then he settles himself onto the throne before he can lose his nerve.

The cheer that rises up is utterly deafening, and Bilbo is wincing as he steps up to place his hand upon Thorin’s, entwining their fingers, even Dáin and Kíli appearing visibly uncomfortable at the noise.

Thorin looks across the hall, at the great assembly of his people spread throughout the hall and he has to duck his head to hide the tears threatening to overflow his composure.

* * *

Thorin bursts into the small room he had been hiding in earlier, slamming the door behind him and locking it before lunging for the table and pulling off the ceremonial rings and adornments, his hands visibly trembling.

The post-coronation feast is still in full flow, every dwarf present already roaring drunk or well on their way, and even Bilbo rather tipsy, not to mention the actual _feasting_ , which Thorin knows will occupy Bilbo for an hour yet at the very least. He has time.

(time for what, he will not admit even to himself)

But Thorin still remains sober (mostly out of fear that he will lose whatever tenuous control he has if he does) and he has eaten scarcely a fraction of what the rest of the dwarves present have, which he thinks _(fears)_ is linked to his inability to eat or drink during the height of his sickness.

Thorin slowly moves into the center of the room, and even though they are deep within the mountain and there are no lights here he can see as if the sun is high in the sky above and the otherworldly blue glow of his eyes reflects back at him from the emerald marble of Erebor.

Thorin closes his eyes and focuses, refusing to think about what he is doing, and then something _shifts_ within him, and his eyes snap open to see his hands covered in impenetrable dragonscale, the right accented with the familiar silver lines of his claws _(nearly the same sharp, curved lines as Orcrist)_ but the left covered in a silver bark pattern, the armouring thicker and stronger whereas his right hand is built for slashing and stabbing attacks. Thorin draws the sleeve of his fur surcoat back to reveal the patterning extending all along his forearm, mimicking almost perfectly the layout and texturing of his lost oakenshield.

It strikes him all at once and Thorin sits down hard, still staring at the scales, now patterned almost perfectly off his preferred weapons, changed and altered so they more strongly reflect the truth of his soul rather than trying to twist his nature and replace it with something else entirely.

“I am not the dragon,” Thorin hisses, shaking his head and banishing the scales with a thought, obsidian and silver fading back into pale flesh.

_He_ has the power to control it, the dwarven king of Erebor, not the dragon mockery.

But the glow of his eyes remains, as if mocking him for his attempts to deny the curse. As if mocking his true nature.

Or perhaps it is the dragon who is his true self and the rest is naught but an illusion?

Thorin presses his hands against his face, pressing down hard on his eyes as if trying to will the nightmare to disappear, but he can still hear the sounds of his harsh breathing and the soft noises of denial that keep escaping his lips.

Thorin lifts his head, staring into the blackness that is never true darkness now, not anymore.

“I am not the dragon,” he whispers. “I am _not_.”

But the fire blazing within his chest belies his words.

Thorin blinks, suddenly realizing something.

_Fire._

And then he shakes his head in mute horror, rising and slowly backing up until he hits the wall because _Mahal, no_

Thorin closes his eyes, and in his mind repeats a soft litany of _I can’t do this, Mahal I can’t do this, ~~I am failing you twice over, I am so **sorry**~~_

But Thorin has never been able to let go, and he _knows_ that, whatever is happening with this curse, it is _he_ who is in control.

And that, more than anything, is what gives him the courage to do what he does next.

Thorin holds his hand cupped before his face, willing the claws back into existence, and then he closes his eyes and focuses on that sensation of fire blazing beside his heart, on the warmth spreading through his entire body.

At first there is nothing, no flicker from the contained firestorm within him, but then he reaches out and the dragonfire flashes through him, bright and consuming but also imbuing him with a sense of impossible invincibility, and for that single moment he feels more powerful than he ever has in his _life_ , feels the dragon’s power throbbing through his bones and for that once instant, channels it into himself and into his mind, and for that moment he stands upon the peak of Erebor with all of Arda spread out before him, wings outstretched to touch the clouds and he feels a strength and surety running through him that not even the dragon sickness has provided before. Feels, for that one instant, as if everything that has come before matters for nothing, because he knows and believes in his heart that he can _change everything_.

Feels, for that one second, _worthy._

And then his eyes fly open, bright and blazing enough to illuminate the entire room and outline Erebor’s emerald stone in otherworldly blue fire, and the flames burning in his heart and in his soul, too strong now to be contained, burst from his lips in an exhalation of flame that lights up the whole room with a flash like lightning before dimming down to a single contained light cupped in his hand.

Thorin – just Thorin, with none of the previous strength running through him – gazes into the flame with the fire in his soul dimming back down to mere glowing embers, and in it he sees a strength that surprises even himself, a hope and surety he has never known, and he wonders why the flame glows white-blue and not scarlet but then, this is _his_ dragonfire, _his_ strength made manifest and the power and symbolism of Durin blue runs like a support column through his very soul.

And in that fire he can see the chance he might have for something like peace, a stability and confidence he has never known, and it is only when the fire blurs in his vision that he realizes he is softly crying, because he can feel that yearning in his heart and he _so desperately_ wants to feel that sense of utter surety once more, even as the suspicion in his heart whispers of its falseness.

But in a moment’s action that he knows must be right but nonetheless feels as if it is tearing his heart to shreds, he closes his hand around the fire, extinguishing its light.

“I,” he hisses fiercely into the dark, “am _not the dragon_.”

And despite the fact that he knows this is triumph he still has to stay leaning against the wall for a few moments before he can go to rejoin the others, and he has to dash tears from his eyes as he leaves because he cannot allow his weakness to show.

Not even in the silent shadows which will never betray him.


End file.
